


Princess

by cracktheglasses (cormallen)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Brendol Hux's A+ Parenting, Come Eating, Crossdressing Kink, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Feminization, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Panties, Pet Names, Pretty Hux, Pretty Hux in panties, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Sexting, Spanking, Underage Hux, spanking with a belt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 06:11:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7879606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cracktheglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The panties Ren has in his hands aren’t exactly like the pair he gave Hux before, a delicate pale pink trimmed with darker lace. This new pair is a silky white, the fabric ruffled, a line of bows trailing down the front. </p>
<p>They look ridiculous. </p>
<p>They look obscene.</p>
<p>“Put them on,” Ren says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Princess

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [kitanai](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kitanai/) for the beta and general awesomeness, [the-garbage-chute](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ekp/pseuds/the-garbage-chute) for additional beta, finance talk, and being completely amazing, and [Sidle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sidleupandsmile) and [Bailey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mythbusterposey) for more finance talk and yet more awesome.
> 
> Here. Have the filth.
> 
> UPDATE: [the GLORIOUS @ottenebrare has drawn pretty Hux in his pretty dress and HE IS SO LOVELY](https://ottenebrare.tumblr.com/post/149934818303/youre-too-young-for-me-but-i-can-keep-a-secret)

“Armie!”

Fuck. That’s today, Hux remembers, a second too late. Why did it have to be today; why did he forget? He pulls at the strap of his backpack with clenching fingers, hoisting it further up his shoulder.

“ _Armie_?” Phasma questions, coming up behind him on the school steps. “Mitaka’s running late, debate’s meeting till three. I told him we’d wait in the back lot.”

The rumble of the engine quiets with a sigh. The M3’s door slams, sunlight reflecting off of the polished black finish.

Hux stumbles on the top step, the weight of the bookbag eating into his skin, chafing at the soft, tense spot between his neck and the collar of his uniform polo.

“I can’t. Today,” he grits out, and takes a deep breath. “I can’t come over. I’m sorry. I’m supposed to go to—I told you how Father wants me to start coming to the office after school, so I can, I dunno. Watch him run the business, I guess?”

He’s not supposed to end his statements with questions; _how you speak matters_ , Brendol’s low, clear enunciation in his head. _Slower, lower, louder. You, of all people, need to learn how to speak with authority_. Hux had nodded, picking at his shirt cuffs, thread fraying from the buttonhole until his father raised a heavy eyebrow, fixed him with an unblinking grey stare. Hux left the thread alone. Took his elbows off the table. Folded his hands.

“Armie. Come on, kid, let’s get going!”

“Who’s that?” Phasma asks, eyes sliding over the car, the man leaning on the door, keys twirled around a thick finger.

“That’s Ren. Kylo. He works with—he’s Father’s colleague. They play racquetball together,” he adds, apropos of nothing, feels heat coloring his cheeks in a ragged pink stain. “Must’ve asked him to come get me,” he says, barely able to get the words out, and walks down the remaining three steps to the pavement. There’s a line of cars in front of Ren’s and a line behind, parents and nannies and assistants, and he turns, chews on his lip for a moment like he’s supposed to tell Phasma something else.

“I’ll see you in Calc tomorrow?” he finishes lamely, aware he’s uptalking again, but Phasma just nods, shrugs her shoulders.

“Good luck with the future business leadering, or whatever,” she says. Hux lets the bookbag slide heavily down his arm, catches the strap between his fingers.

“Want to drive?” Ren asks, opening the passenger door, and Hux shakes his head, shoves the bag into the car ahead of himself.

“You know I don’t have my license yet,” he mutters, settling into the molded leather, waits for Ren to get back around.

“All the more reason to practice,” Ren says, turning the key in the ignition. He pulls out of the line, hands at a perfect 10–2, signals left to get onto the turnpike. “I know your dad’s busy with the Hamilton merger. I’ll take you out sometime this weekend, up towards Coventry, where it’s quiet.”

No _would you like me to_ , no _maybe up towards Coventry?_ Hux notes, turning to the window, watching the houses get smaller and closer together.

It looks like it’s about to rain, sky the kind of leaden, thick grey that makes all the other colors look strangely ominous. Ren passes the turn for I-84, the on-ramp and the skyline of the city proper vanishing in the rearview.

“Plenty of time,” he says to Hux’s questioning look, brakes for a red light. “You have French club after school; he’s not expecting you until four.”

“That’s tomorrow,” Hux says, staring at Ren’s big hand on the gearshift, meticulously filed nails, the white shirt cuff peeking out from underneath the dark navy of his silk-wool suit sleeve.

“Tomorrow, too,” Ren says, not missing a beat. “Model UN Wednesday. Undo your belt.”

The light turns green. Ren hangs a quick right into a gravel driveway, a carwash with a large _closed_ sign on the entrance, and pulls around to the back like he’s about to go through the self-serve.

“Your belt, sweet thing,” he repeats, cutting the engine. “Get it open. Zipper, too. Let me see you.”

Hux knows he is bright red, cheeks burning, the words tumbling out of him breathless, before he can help it.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t—I’m not wearing them. I’m sorry,” he finishes, unable to look Ren in the eye, to see how disappointed, how displeased he must be. He stares at Ren’s chest, instead, as his fingers fumble at his belt buckle; at Ren’s tie, a few shades lighter than the suit, soft and subtly textured.

He lifts his skinny hips up off the seat and shimmies the khakis down until they’re bunched around his thighs, revealing a plain pair of briefs, soft grey cotton instead of what Ren is expecting to see. Instead of what Ren has instructed him to wear.

He squeezes his eyes tightly closed, breathes loudly through his nose as he waits for the rebuke. A rustle of cloth, and then Ren is sliding two fingers under his chin, pushing it gently up.

“Look at me, princess, hmm?” Ren murmurs, and Hux obeys, blinking his eyes against the daylight. Ren is leaning in close, his thick black hair curling slightly around his face. Hux takes it in—his dark hooded eyes, his blunt asymmetrical jaw, the strong line of his nose.

“Why didn’t you do as you were told?”

Hux doesn’t have a good answer for this, but he tries; knows Ren won’t let him get away with mere silence.

“I don’t know,” he says miserably. “I was going to, this morning. But Mondays I have gym second period, and I couldn’t, and then I was going to take them with me?” His voice goes embarrassingly shrill, high; Hux bites his lip, takes another deep breath. “And then I forgot. I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m sorry.”

“What else did you forget?” Ren asks; Hux wants to shut his eyes again, but he doesn’t dare, keeps looking at Ren, so close.

“When you can’t do something,” Ren prompts.

Hux remembers.

“I’m supposed to tell you. Supposed to ask for help, if I need,” he stammers, and Ren nods, rubs his thumb over the dip in Hux’s chin.

“Good. That’s right. Remember, I’ll always help you, won’t I? Sweet thing,” Ren says and moves closer, brushes his lips over Hux’s forehead. “My silly little princess. Would you like me to help you now?”

“Yes. Yes, Daddy, please,” Hux breathes out, eager to finally do something right. “Will you please help me?”

“Of course,” Ren says, and smiles wide, letting Hux see the sharp edges of his teeth. “Take those the rest of the way off,” he says, gesturing at Hux’s lap, and Hux complies quickly, pulls the waistband of the briefs down, tugs at his trousers, hooks his ankles together to kick off his polished shoes.

“Good,” Ren approves, and opens the driver’s side door. “Now, come on out of the car, kitten, and lean over the hood for me.”

Hux’s heart pounds.

“Someone will see,” he protests, but Ren only shakes his head.

“There’s nobody here. No one will see. Come on, lovely.”

Hux’s belly does a sharp little flip each time Ren says it— _kitten_ , _sweet_ , _lovely_. He’d balked at _princess_ at first, even more than he’s always kicked up at _Armie_ , but the way Ren looks each time the word leaves his mouth—indulgently satisfied, like there’s nothing that pleases him more—makes Hux shiver.

“OK. All right,” he nods, and pulls on the door handle.

Cool air hits his exposed thighs, his ass, gooseflesh beginning to prickle almost at once. He tugs at the hem of his polo, self-conscious, awkwardly trying to cover the worst of it—his sharp hipbones, the freckles dotting the pale skin. The trail of red curls and the soft weight of his cock between his legs. The ground is rough, gravel digging into the soles of his feet. Hux gingerly makes his way around and bends down as ordered, palms spread over the car’s smooth metal.

“Good,” Ren praises, coming up behind him. “Very good, kitten. Now count for me.”

Hux hears the jingle of the buckle, the swish of the leather through the air, and gasps a split moment before the stinging pain follows, the belt cracking harshly against his ass.

It hurts. It’s hot, sharp, spreading, as Ren waits for Hux to say the word that means he’s ready for more.

“One,” Hux says, and takes a deep breath.

His father took a belt to him once, when Hux was nine, heavy crystal shards of the decanter swept up from the floor while Hux watched, frozen, rainbows of light reflecting in the dust pan. Brendol hadn’t done anything as premeditated as making him keep count.

Hux realized, much later, that he might have avoided the punishment in the first place had he not crumbled, already sniffling, tears welling in his eyes as he whispered his sorrys to Brendol’s heavy stare. It had been _Blubbering, like a girl_ , or _I’ll give you something to cry about_ —he doesn’t remember the exact words before he was wailing, soaking the arm of the couch with spit and snot and tears, fingers clenched into the rough cushion. Brendol was tersely contrite the next day, taking him out for ice cream, steering carefully around potholes and speed bumps, and he never did do it again, preferring to impress his disappointment on Hux in more sophisticated ways.

This—Ren’s hand lashing through the air to deliver another stinging, sharp blow to his already smarting ass—isn’t like that; isn’t punishment. Isn’t the brunt of Ren’s disapproval writ on his skin.

“Two,” he mutters, voice shaking, toes digging into the rough, uneven ground. His palms slide on the smooth metal of the BMW’s hood, still warm from the engine running, heated air curling around in almost tangible arcs.

“Three.”

Ren wants him to be good. Is helping him remember how to.

He can sense Ren winding back, and shakes in anticipation, the twitch beginning in his thighs, shuddering up through the muscle into his back, into the curve of his spine.

“It’s all right. You’re all right, kitten. You’re doing very well,” Ren says, and then the belt connects again, again, again, harder than before, three quick strikes he hurries to name _four_ , _five_ , _six_ , overlapping over his suddenly too-tight skin.

“Seven.”

His body thrums, hot all over, static blurring the edges of his sight. His fingers scrabble over the metal as he struggles to keep himself upright over the hood. He bites the inside of his cheek, tries to keep still as he braces himself for eight, but is unable to stop his hips from thrusting back, ass pushing up higher, more open for Ren, for the belt landing _nine_ and _ten_ over the tops of his thighs.

It’s a sharper, deeper pain there, somehow, the belt licking into the soft crease of his left thigh, then the right. Hux feels his eyes water as he rocks back into the blows.

The belt buckle clatters against the ground. The gravel crunches, shifting under Ren’s shoes, and then hot, heavy hands are palming at him, rough over his burning, throbbing ass. Hux mewls, pushing into Ren’s touch; Ren’s pressed trousers brush against the backs of his legs, smooth and ticklish.

“Almost there, princess. You’re taking it so well, so good for me,” Ren says quietly, slowly, his breath ghosting over Hux’s ear. One of his hands slides over to Hux’s hip, holding him steady. Ren takes a moment to trace his fingers over a welt that aches and tingles at the contact, and then he is winding back again, the slap connecting hard with Hux’s ass.

He yelps, jumps, bucking forward into the unyielding metal, Ren’s firm grip on his hipbone the only thing anchoring him in place.

“Eleven,” he manages, choking on the syllables, even as Ren is already doling out two more strikes, each slap reverberating through his ears, into the center of his skull, down into his chest. He is on fire, aching, clenching, the fabric of his shirt too much on his squirming, desperate body. “Fourteen,” he whines, and then “Fifteen,” more tears welling up, soaking his lashes, his cheekbones, a salty droplet landing on his lip.

Ren keeps his hand on him for a moment after he delivers the final blow, his thumb rubbing almost idly into Hux’s hip before it withdraws, leaving Hux bent over the hood, exposed, alone, pressing his thighs together, tonguing at the tender, bitten spot on the inside of his cheek.

“Stand up straight,” Ren says, “and turn around.”

Hux’s back and neck twinge a bit as he straightens, a consequence of holding the position. He rolls his shoulders, still sniffling, and wipes at his heated, wet face as he turns slowly towards Ren. Ren’s cheeks are flushed, his hair tangled over his forehead; he must have removed his jacket when Hux was getting out of the car, rolled his shirt sleeves up over his thick forearms. He surveys Hux from head to toe, bottom lip hitched between his teeth, then steps closer, runs his tongue over his reddened mouth.

Hux swallows and looks down at his own feet, toes digging into the dirt. His bare legs, pale and awkward, his dick, dark pink and filled out, the slick, wet head lifting up the hem of his shirt.

“Look at me,” says Ren, and places his hands on Hux’s tight shoulders, squeezes lightly, reassuring. “You’re all right, baby. What do you say?”

Hux glances at him from under his lashes, and lets out another sniffle.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he replies, his raw ass aching, stiff cock aching, breath sticking in his throat. Ren pulls him in close, presses him tightly into his warm, broad chest, the faint scent of starch and his smoky-sweet cologne filling Hux’s nostrils. He slides a hand down to Hux’s ass, palms at it firmly, fingers digging in, sending a fresh wave of stinging pain rolling up through him. Hux’s cock twitches where it’s caught against Ren’s clothed leg; he feels strained, on edge, on the cusp of coming undone.

Ren keeps on holding him tight, runs his hand up from his ass to the small of his back, rubs it in soft, soothing circles. Hux presses his cheek firmer into Ren’s shirtfront and breathes in deep, smelling his skin, salty and warm, through the clean scent of shirt and cologne. It’s too much; Ren’s hand, his long, thick fingers massaging him, gentle but firm; the raw, hot ache still pulsing through his backside. Hux sobs, tears coming in earnest, sliding down his face, wetting his cheeks, his chin, Ren’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers, muffled, “I’m sorry. I’ll do better, be better for you, Daddy. I’ll wear them, I’ll—whatever you want, please, please …“ he isn’t sure what it is he’s pleading for, exactly, but Ren bends down, kisses the top of his head.

“Of course, kitten. Of course you will. Shh, come on, let me help you.”

“Daddy,” Hux whispers, almost afraid of his own voice, of his ability to answer, to shape the word with his lips and tongue. He trembles, as Ren pushes him back just enough to slide a hand around to his front, to lift up his shirt, fingers stroking softly from his navel down. He gasps when Ren takes hold of his dick, huge hand wrapping around him easily, swallowing him up. His thighs twitch helplessly with the need to move, to do something, anything against the overwhelming sensation, hips clumsily thrusting, trying to push into Ren’s palm.

“Baby. My lovely,” Ren sighs, and begins stroking him in strong, sure pulls, his grip almost too hard. Hux is too close already, body wound tight. It feels like he’s falling apart against Ren’s hands, Ren’s hot mouth gently pressing against the top of his head , and Hux swallows, gulps air frantically, tries desperately to hold on. Tears are still leaking down his cheeks, the hair at his temples matted with sweat; he is raw, stretched, pulled open, whimpering and jerking at Ren’s every movement, at each stroke of his hand. His cock is dark red, shiny-slick where he can see it through Ren’s fingers, his balls tingling, taut between his thighs.

Ren’s large thumb skates over the head of his dick, almost covering it up; it’s incredible, agonizing. Hux strains forward, biting his lip, does his best not to let go until Ren says, until he’s allowed.

“Come, baby,” Ren tells him, and Hux sobs in relief, grabbing tightly onto Ren’s shirt, his arm, anywhere he can reach. Ren twists his fingers sharply under the head of his dick, and Hux screams and comes, thick, milky spurts smearing over Ren’s hand.

His heart feels like it’s pounding in his throat, pulse echoing in his ears. He’s shattered, broken into pieces, still breathing heavily in Ren’s arms when Ren brings his come-streaked palm up to Hux’s mouth.

“Open up, princess,” he says, and pushes his fingers between Hux’s lips, the salty, bitter taste filling his mouth. “Be a good girl for me, and lick me clean.”

Hux does, tongues at Ren’s fingers, his palm, gagging a little on the slimy feel of his own come sliding down his throat. He licks at Ren’s hand until all the bitterness is gone and it tastes of nothing but spit and skin, and Ren hums, satisfied, and pulls back.

“Stay right there,” he says, and walks back around to the car, opens the door, unzips a bag in the back seat.

The cold air hitting him again, after the heated cocoon of Ren’s arms, makes Hux feel suddenly small, defenseless. He crumples the hem of his shirt in his hands, fingers clenching and unclenching helplessly over the bunched cloth.

He is standing in a gravel lot behind a closed carwash, only yards away from a busy road. His face is streaked with dried tears, his ass bare, striped red with his own belt, by Ren, Ren who stops by on weekends, and on holidays. Who sits in the den with Brendol watching the game, mounds of work spread out between them on the coffee table. Ren who gave him movie tickets and an Amazon gift card tucked into an envelope for his junior high school graduation.

Shame floods his face. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but the words catch on his tongue, get swallowed down when Ren turns around.

The panties he has in his hands aren’t exactly like the pair he gave Hux before, a delicate pale pink trimmed with darker lace, currently stuffed into his dresser drawer, wadded up underneath a stack of grey cotton tees. This new pair is a silky white, the fabric ruffled, a line of bows trailing down the front.

They look ridiculous.

They look obscene.

“Put them on,” Ren says, handing him the soft scrap of cloth. Hux chews his lip for a moment as he simply holds the panties in his hands, then nods resolutely.

He can do this.

He steps into the panties carefully and draws them up his legs, the silky smooth, cool feel of them alien over his skin. He hisses a little when he has to pull them over his sensitive ass, and palms his softened cock awkwardly, adjusting it inside the tight fit. He yanks his shirt up and out of the way when he’s got them all the way on and turns slowly around, the way he knows Ren likes him to. Ren always wants to see. Appraise him. Tell him what he thinks.

“Pretty,” Ren says softly, and smiles. “So pretty for me.”

Something inside Hux uncoils at the words, lets go, the shame and the tension sliding down and away.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he says, blushing only a little, and lets the polo fall back down in its place.

Ren hands him his trousers, then his belt; watches as Hux pulls the dull khakis up over the panties, hiding the ruffle and bows from sight. As he slides the belt through the loops.

His hands are clumsy over the leather, still humid and warm from Ren’s grip, from his own skin, but Ren waits patiently for him to do it up, buckle closed, before returning with Hux’s socks and shoes. He crouches on the ground, cradles Hux’s bony ankle between his palms.

“Lift,” he instructs, and Hux complies, raises his left foot for Ren to slide on his sock, then his oxford, then repeats the process with the right.

Ren ties his laces for him, looping bunny ears into perfectly symmetrical, square knots, and pats him on the leg approvingly before standing.

“Look at me a moment, baby,” he says, and lays a restraining hand on Hux’s shoulder, taps him under the chin with two fingers until Hux looks up.

“Hmm. Hold still.”

Ren pulls a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket, wets a corner from a bottle of water retrieved from the car. He cleans Hux’s face gently but efficiently, wipes away the tear tracks and the sweat, pats his cheeks dry with the soft cloth.

“There you go,” he says, surveying his work, and plants a quick kiss over Hux’s temple. “It’s almost quarter to. Time to head over.”

Hux is careful lowering himself into the M3’s passenger seat, but he can’t help the hissing gasp as he settles down. The ruffle of the panties rasps over his skin, the thin strip of cloth pulls taut over his balls, digging into the cleft of his ass, straining at his hole. The rough feel of the khakis is worse; every point of contact between his thighs and the seat reignites the throbbing ache. He shifts a little, trying to find a comfortable position, and hears Ren’s low, satisfied laugh.

“Should get you a cushion, princess,” Ren says, throwing the car into drive. “Bring it along just in case.” He reaches over and rubs his fingers gently over Hux’s jaw. “My poor sore little girl. Going to sleep on your belly tonight?”

“Yes,” Hux says petulantly, pooching out his lips. Ren thumbs at his mouth briefly, and moves his hand back to the gearshift.

“Going to squirm in homeroom tomorrow,” he continues. “Fidget all through English class. Aren’t you?” It’s more declaration of fact than question; Ren knows exactly how easily Hux bruises. How long it takes for the marks—and the soreness—to fade. Hux answers anyway.

“Yeah. Yes, Daddy.”

“Good,” Ren says, heading back towards the highway. Hux cautiously leans back in his seat; the panties ride up a little more, tight against his ass, but it’s bearable as long as he keeps still. He closes his eyes, rests his head back on the leather until the car’s slowed down and Ren is pulling into the parking garage next to the Gold Building. Hux shoulders his bookbag and follows Ren up to the 25th floor, the elevator stopping with a hiss.

Ren nods at the short, bespectacled receptionist as they go by, and deposits Hux with Brendol’s assistant, who greets Hux harriedly between sharp clacks on his keyboard.

“He’s just finishing up on a conference call, but you can go on in, Armie,” he says, pulling off his headset. “You want a granola bar or some water? There are muffins down the hall.”

Hux shakes his head at the muffins, but grabs the proffered water bottle before heading into his father’s office, Brendol’s sharp, clipped voice in his ears as soon as he opens the door. He does like Brendol’s workspace, the frosted glass and the rows of books on the far wall, the low, leather couch. The black and white photographs and the stack of journals on the coffee table. It’s crisp and ordered, clean without being clinical. A good place to think, he decides, and settles in the corner chair without being told to, pulls out his French book and begins working on his synopsis of _Jean de Florette_ , looking up words he isn't sure of in the back of the text and a dictionary app on his phone.

Brendol is still talking, gesticulating angrily with his hands by the time Les Romarins has been mortgaged to Cesar Soubeyran, and the chair has gotten far too uncomfortable. Hux tries not to fidget, but it’s hard to keep still. He bounces the book on his knee, the band of the panties cutting into his thigh, tilts his hips to get the pressure off of his most sensitive, still-burning skin.

It’s not enough. He sets the book on the floor and gets up to stretch, back cracking with a satisfying click. His father is scribbling something on a legal pad, the phone clutched between cheek and shoulder. Hux quietly exits the room and walks down to the kitchenette, grabs a slightly stale muffin from the basket, pulls a recyclable cup off of the dispenser and sets it under the Keurig. He’s walking back, coffee in hand, when Ren leans out of his office, tie loosened, the cuffs of his sleeves rolled back up.

“Hey, Armie, come in here a second, would you?”

“Sure,” Hux says, quickly shoving the remaining bit of muffin into his mouth, chewing and swallowing.

Ren’s intern Unamo and two people Hux knows only by name are clustered around the whiteboard, where black and blue numbers are nestled between red arrows, underlines, and rows of x’s that look more like a football play than anything else. Ren gestures him to a seat, deposits a folder into his waiting hands.

“Here. Read this, and tell me what you think.”

Hux takes a sip of his coffee; it’s hot, bitter, despite all the sugar he’s dumped in.

“Is this Hamilton? The merger?” he asks, scanning the first page, then the second, skimming financial statements, a list of board members. There’s a profile of the COO from the November issue of the HBR, a photocopy with notes in the margins.

“Wait, hold on,” he says, eyebrows furrowed as he flips through several pages of major shareholder information with ownership percentage estimated and then revised.

“These are all estimates. And this, these first pages, this is publicly available stuff, and there isn’t a set purchase price or anything?”

No uptalking, he reminds himself, and flips through the folder contents again. Runs a quick hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

“This isn’t a merger. This is a hostile takeover, isn’t it.”

Ren grins with all of his teeth, the suddenly vicious expression at odds with his casually rumpled, relaxed office clothes, the lowered tie knot, the creased sleeves pushed up to the elbow.

“Very good. Tell me more.”

Hux looks down at the folder again, carefully studying the pages.

“The calls. You’re, what, scouting out the useful shareholders? Gearing up for a proxy fight?”

“Why, that’s not what you’d do?” Ren cocks his head, stares at Hux, still smiling, though the crook of his mouth has turned more satisfied than vicious.

“Why wouldn’t you just buy them out? Yeah, I know, you’re going to say it’s a huge expenditure upfront, but I mean, you have the people factor, right? Why deal with the conflict if you don’t have to?”

Spurred on by Ren’s pleased, interested face, Hux keeps going.

“People are, I dunno, unpredictable. Volatile. You’re going to be offering the current shareholders all kinds of deals and favors anyway. That’s already a substantial amount spent, and there’s no guarantee they’re still going to do what you say a couple of years down the road. If you’re going to spend the money, might as well just buy them out now, right? Plus, how often do proxy fights actually work out? Don’t they fail something like forty percent of the time?”

Ren laughs.

“Fair enough. So, you’re advocating tender offer over a proxy fight. You’re in good company,” he nods, pointing to Unamo with his chin. “Keep in mind, any acquisitions of ownership of over five percent of a publicly traded entity require an SEC filing after making the offer, and another within ten days of going through. It’s a much more public process.”

Hux looks over at Unamo; the corners of her thin, dark lips tip up just the slightest bit.

He smiles back.

“Fuck the SEC. I mean. Shit. Sorry. Screw them. How good are your lawyers?”

He hears a muffled chortle behind him and turns around. Brendol is standing in the entrance to Ren’s office, shoulder leaning on the doorjamb, his glasses reflecting the low overhead light.

“Kylo, a moment?” he says. Ren slowly rolls down his sleeves and re-does the buttons before he joins Brendol in the hallway. Hux stands, pointedly doing his best not to listen in, sets the folder back down on Ren’s desk.

“Your father’s ready to go,” Ren tells him, coming back inside after less than a minute. “A lot of homework tonight, Armie?”

“It’s all right,” Hux shrugs, standing. “I’m mostly done with French, and Phasma and I worked on our Calc matrices in study hall, so that only leaves Chem. I do have Model UN this week, though, have to prepare for that.”

“Good luck,” Ren says, and turns back to his whiteboard.

Brendol has collected Hux’s things, his bag, his half-finished water, his French text with the homework pages shoved inside. He carries them all the way down to the parking garage before finally relinquishing them into Hux’s hands, carefully sliding the French book into the zippered front pocket for him.

They take what turns out to be the scenic route home, driving down the Boulevard all the way to Burnside, past St Mary’s and the park. Hux resists the urge to press his nose to the window, like he used to do when he was little, to see the English garden beyond the park fence, the signs for the petting zoo and the volleyball courts on rustic wooden slabs. Both the Junior High and East Catholic have their year-end picnics here; the permission slips for this year’s have already gone out, though it’s still a few months ahead.

“You pick things up quickly,” his father says finally as he makes a left onto Spring. “Good.”

He is silent again until they’ve passed the country club and are minutes away from the house, just a few more stop signs in between. Hux is fiddling with his seatbelt, the strap pulled taut and cutting into his chest.

“Your mother and I are going to be in San Diego all next week. I have meetings with Mardas and at RAE; I thought she might like to come out with me.”

“Victoria isn’t my mother,” Hux says, too quickly, too rote; Brendol clears his throat, continues, as if he hasn’t heard.

“You’re old enough to handle staying by yourself. Nina will still be coming in to clean; she’ll also stock the fridge. I’ve asked Kylo to look in on you, make sure you’re not having parties every night. Though I don’t have to worry about that with you, do I?”

“I’ll be fine,” Hux says, wriggling his hips in the seat. The movement sends a warm, pleasant ache flaring up through his backside, and his cock twitches, trapped inside the silky panties. “He doesn’t have to check on me. I can handle it.”

“Armitage,” his father says in a tone that brooks no argument.

“Fine,” Hux acquiesces with a put upon sigh as they pull into the driveway. He gets out of the car quickly, snatching up his bag, anxious excitement twisting behind his ribs.

A week. An entire week without his father or Victoria watching him, insisting he’s home by ten. For his afternoons and evenings to be Ren’s, to be spent however Ren wants. Maybe nights, too. He bolts up the stairs to his bedroom, two steps at a time, slides the lock closed behind him with shaking fingers.

His phone’s message light is blinking. Hux swipes at the screen, stares at the three texts from Ren, one after the other.

_Do your ankle exercises_ , says the first; Hux almost wishes Ren didn’t know he did indoor track at all, let alone sprained his ankle at a meet in February. He’s been reminding Hux of his stretches daily, as if certain they’d go undone without his supervision.

Hux fetches his resistance band from the closet, sits down on the bed, and starts to unlace his oxfords.

Two pictures follow the first message. Hux feels himself go red, his breaths suddenly short and choppy, as he stares at the first. It’s one of the photos Ren snapped of him the week prior, after he’d handed him the little shopping bag, twisted paper handles, gold and black stripes. His face isn’t in the shot, just his pointed chin, his neck, freckles trailing to his collarbone. His shoulders are hunched, hands clasped shyly in front of his pale stomach—this must have been one of the very first shots, taken before Ren rearranged him to his liking, hands on his hips, at this sides, behind his back. The pink, high cut panties stretch over his hips, the lace edging rough against soft, sensitive skin. The shiny fabric clings tight, outlining his firming cock, a dark spot already spreading wet at the head.

Ren liked it, how slick he got, how sloppy, the way his dick jerked and twitched when Ren palmed him through the pink satin. The way it leaked, messing up his new pretty panties, leaving Ren’s fingers wet and glistening as he pulled back.

“You’re so wet, baby,” Ren said, and knelt down, breathed hot and damp over Hux’s crotch, mouthed at his cock through the panties until they were sopping, soaked with precome and Ren’s spit. He dragged his knuckles over the messy cloth, making Hux mewl.

“My sweet girl, so needy and dripping. Going to eat you out, lick that pretty little cunt. Get on all fours for me.”

Hux did, blushing, trembling, heart thumping inside his chest. The carpet was scratchy under his knees. His hard, aching cock spurted more precome all over the front of the panties.

He wonders if Ren took a photo of him like that, head down, sharp shoulder blades sticking up and the cluster of dark freckles between them. His ass thrust in the air, the pink satin dipping into his crack, cradling his flushed balls, tense between his straining, reddened thighs. He probably did, before he pulled the panties down, just far enough to get at Hux’s asshole, large hands pulling his cheeks apart. Then he leaned forward and licked, a long, lazy swipe of his tongue over Hux’s quivering, twitching rim, and then again, soft, wet mouth pressing against his hole in a filthy, obscene imitation of a kiss.

Hux gasped, moaned, hands clenching and unclenching where they grasped at the carpet. Ren kept licking at him, tongue circling his hole, dipping inside, laving hot, wet stripes all over the sensitive skin. His lips closed over Hux’s asshole, sucking, easing the way for his tongue to work further in, pointed and slippery.

Ren’s saliva dripped down his crack, squelching in the creases of his thighs; he sobbed when Ren pushed a thick finger into his loosened, sloppy hole, then a second, making him shudder.

“Daddy, please,” he rasped, “I can’t, I can’t, it’s too much.” He was overwhelmed, too full, sweat beading on his forehead as Ren fucked him with two fingers, deeper, faster, until the only noises he could make were hoarse little gasps, coming almost unbidden from his raw throat.

He screamed when Ren crooked his fingers, pushing them forward, and kept screaming, choking on the sound as he came, spasming and clenching around Ren’s hand. His cock pulsed inside the soft cloth, thick strings of come pooling hot and slimy in his pubic hair, on his trapped balls. Ren stroked him through it, one big hand gently petting the side of his ass, his hip, while his fingers still moved slowly inside, sending sparks igniting through Hux’s spine, turning his knees to jelly.

Ren held him after, when he’d come down, stroking his hair and kissing at his wet, reddened face.

“Baby,” he whispered. “Darling. So good, so perfect for me.”

Hux blushed harder. Rubbed his cheek into Ren’s chest, soft but insistent, like a cat.

Hux blinks. Breathes deeply, wishing Ren were here, instead, not sending him texts. Soon, he tells himself, soon, soon, soon, and scrolls down to the final message, fingers growing slow and clumsy as he takes the picture in.

It’s not of Hux. It’s a girl on a runway, summer-blonde hair pulled back from her face, tied with a length of ribbon. Another ribbon circles her throat, red and shiny, the ends knotted together in a neat little bow. She’s walking forward, hands clasped in front of her, pale pink polish staining her short, round nails. The dress she is wearing is tiny, white, a sheer lace skirt flaring out from what almost looks like a corset, tapered waist and a row of little hooks pulling the front closed. The skirt barely hits her mid-thigh; Hux can see the shadow of panties, a dark little triangle, underneath the see-through, delicate lace.

He can’t breathe.

Awkward, stiff hands type out the message back and hit send before he knows what he’s doing, two words, question mark.

_For me?_

Ren answers almost immediately, the phone buzzing.

_Yes, princess. For you._

_Daddy_ , he sends back, his stomach tensing, his cock tenting out the crotch of his uniform pants. _Please, may I?_

Ren takes a few moments with this one, the phone showing him typing, entering text, then maybe erasing it and starting anew as no message comes in.

_You may touch_ , Hux receives finally. _For five minutes. But you are not permitted to come again today, baby, understood?_

Hux whines out loud, clenching his thighs together tightly. It’s unfair, so unfair of Ren, to send him the pictures, tease him like that, and still expect him to be good.

He bites his lip, hard, swallowing down another whine.

_Yes_ , he types, and presses send.

_You may start now_ , Ren replies, and Hux lets the phone slip from his grasp.

The polo is off first, pulled over his head carelessly, buttons popping. He tosses it onto the floor, his khakis joining in short order. He slides the panties down to his knees, and wraps a hand around his straining, reddened cock.

His fingers don't eclipse it the way Ren’s do, the way it gets subsumed in Ren’s enormous hot grip. Nestled in Ren’s palm, his dick looks small, _pretty_ like Ren says, _even prettier all wrapped up in your lacy little panties, like a present. Gorgeous_.

Hux closes his eyes and strokes slowly, squeezing his fingers tight, doing his best not to get too close, trying to picture the way the corset will pull in his waist, will make him ache as Ren does up all of the little metal hooks in front. The way the sheer skirt will do nothing to cover up the bows on his panties, his cock underneath them, pushing them out and into the lace of the dress.

_Pretty_ , he hears Ren say. _Pretty baby_ , and bites his lip, tensing, straining, working his cock roughly in wet, quick jerks.

It's good, so good. Hux moans, twists his fingers under the head of his dick, rubs his thumb over his dripping slit the way Ren does, the nail catching slightly, a quick jolt of pain making his hand stutter. He grinds his hips down into the bed, hard, his already sore ass lighting up more, every welt sparking, every crease of the sheet underneath him making him groan, humping into his clenched hand. He is on edge, ready, anticipation building electric in the pit of his belly when his phone buzzes, muffled against his discarded clothes.

He almost doesn't stop. Almost keeps his hand moving, just for the few moments more he needs to tumble over the edge, balls full, spine bowstring taut. Ren wouldn't know; wouldn't punish him for it unless Hux told him. And yet.

Hux grits his teeth, breathes through his nose, ragged, harsh. Once. Twice. Again. Opens his eyes to the white walls and carpeted floor of his bedroom. Takes his hand off his needy, pulsing cock.

A second new text from Ren has already popped up on the screen by the time he feels calm enough to reach for his phone. It's been more than five minutes. In fact, it’s maybe closer to fifteen; he wasn't checking when he started.

_Gave you a few extra minutes_ , Ren confirms. _But I know you’re being good for me, aren’t you?_

_Yes_ , Hux replies, as quickly as he can. _I wanted to keep going, so much. I stopped, because you said to._

He bites his lip, hovers his fingers tentatively over the screen before typing out, _Still really want to, need it, Daddy. Please?_

_Tomorrow,_ Ren replies, unpersuaded.

Resigned, Hux sighs. Takes another heavy, deep breath. Pulls up on the delicately stitched waistband of the panties so he can feel them tighter over his still mostly hard cock, in the crease of his ass.

_May I wear my new panties to bed tonight?_ he asks instead. It’s a lot easier to type than say out loud; all the same, a full-body shiver charges through him at Ren’s affirmative.

_You may. Now go take care of your ankle, I know you haven’t done that yet. I’ll see you tomorrow, kitten_.

Hux sighs again. Settles down at the foot of his bed and picks up the resistance band, hooks it under the sole of his right foot. After he’s done all of the prescribed stretches, he throws on a soft, comfortable tee and a pair of his old pyjama pants to walk downstairs for a quick snack. The panties shift and bunch a little more with every step he takes to the kitchen, relief and frustration pressing into his skin in patterns of scalloped lace and silk.

He thinks of the dress that waits for him at Ren’s as he slices cheese, puts cucumber and tomatoes on a plate, arranging them in a pleasing semi-circle. Pictures sheer, voluminous tulle around his hips. The row of hooks, cinched tight over his chest, ribbon circling his throat. Thinks of the model’s hands, her nails painted a soft, iridescent pink.

The idea flashes through his mind as he’s almost back to his room. He leaves his plate of food on the landing, and softly pads down the hallway to the master bedroom, carefully pushing the door open a sliver. The care is superfluous; Victoria isn’t yet home, and his father is in the downstairs den, his usual evening habit, the Huskies game and two fingers of Bombay gin in a rocks glass.

He flips on the light and makes his way into the en suite bath, pulls open the drawer under the polished marble countertop. Just as he expected, there’s an array of bottles inside, purple and red, silver sparkling, more shades of pink than Hux knows what to do with. He selects a light, shimmery rose in a square bottle, thinks about it for a moment, grabs an emery board, some cotton pads and a container of remover, and heads back to his room.

Once he’s safely locked in again, he puts his bounty on the nightstand and looks at the picture on his phone one more time, the outline of panties under the girl’s dress, the embroidered pattern at the low neckline. Her hands. The nail polish color isn’t a perfect match, but it’ll work. Ren will like it; he’s sure. Hux scrolls back through Ren’s texts, the photographs of himself, the stretching reminders, a litany of admonishments, orders and praise.

_My sweet, darling girl. Always so good for me, princess,_ he reads, and sets the phone down, reaching for the polish.

Yes.

He is. He will be.

He’ll be perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Shame me [here on tumblr](http://cracktheglasses.tumblr.com/), as usual. And in case you missed it up top, [the absolutely amazing @ottenebrare has drawn pretty Hux in his pretty dress and he is lovely and you should go look at him and give @ottenebrare some love](https://ottenebrare.tumblr.com/post/149934818303/youre-too-young-for-me-but-i-can-keep-a-secret)


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